


Apologise

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMM flashfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-26 01:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15652779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Jack's late. He has to apologise. For the August Flashfic challenge





	Apologise

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so, this requires a bit of an explanation. I was all set up to write Heat 1 today, from [this image](https://78.media.tumblr.com/1477ae7cd9ce1d4b23a1ef2b01bc7276/tumblr_inline_pd9icmeeHc1tgisoy_500.jpg). Unfortunately, real life thought otherwise. So when Heat 3 came out and [this image](https://78.media.tumblr.com/aefc443b86bcb46b7b81ffa9fd4f4b28/tumblr_inline_pd9kanSfjq1tgisoy_500.jpg) matched the ending I'd had in mind for the not-even-started Heat 1 Fic, I decided to... combine both? It made sense at the time, I swear. Whatever. I think we can blame the flashfic organisers.
> 
> Many thanks to aurora_australis for reading this over and giving me filthy thoughts. Mostly the filthy thoughts, to be honest.

“You’re late, inspector.”

The imperious voice came from his parlour, and Jack tried to suppress a smile as he removed his hat and coat and hung them both on the peg. He lingered longer than necessary, bracing himself for all manner of sins once he crossed the threshold, but enjoying making her wait. Anticipation, she had once told him, came with all sorts of pleasures. Admittedly she’d been talking about _his_ anticipation, but the principle was sound.

Stepping into the parlour, he almost lost his breath. There was a single lamp lit, on the far side of the room; it cast as many shadows as it did light, the room at once familiar and foreign. Phryne was sat in his favourite armchair, regal and poised and half in shadow; all desire to make her wait, to tease her, was gone in an instant--he strode across the room, until she raised one hand.

“You’re late,” she repeated, sounding almost irate.

“Paperwork.”

“I don’t want excuses. It’s unacceptable.”

“My apologies.”

She tilted her head in consideration. “It’s a start.”

He began to move towards her again, slowly this time, eyes raking over her silhouette and hands lifted in supplication. When he reached the chair he bent down to kiss her, but was stopped by a firm hand on his chest.

“I expect a _thorough_ apology,” she said, pushing him to his knees; he went willingly.

In this new position, he could see that she’d discarded her knickers; the scent was almost enough to bury his face between her thighs, desperate to be surrounded by her. A directing hand in his hair stopped him, and he met her eyes.

“Slowly,” she ordered.

He kissed each thigh, nibbled them until she sighed and loosened her grip slightly; when his tongue found her cunt, it was marvelously wet. The image of her playing with herself while she’d waited, driving herself to orgasm in his armchair while he was filing police reports and completely unawares, made him harder than he already was.

He took his orders to heart, building her pleasure in the slowest of increments, listening to each sigh and moan and feeling the ever-growing tension in her muscles; eventually she began to pant, fisting his hair and canting her hips towards him. He slid his hands beneath her arse, kneading the flesh as his tongue thrust into her; her breath hitched then stopped, waiting for the final movement that would send her catapulting into the abyss of pleasure.

It didn’t come.

Her eyes opened when he stopped, ready to command his completion.

“You said slowly, Miss Fisher. And I am very apologetic.”

There was a flash of amusement in her eyes, quickly schooled. She looked at him, cool and detached.

“As you should be,” she said, letting her legs fall open slightly more and stroking herself lightly.

She was going to kill him.

He resumed his exploration, driving her to the edge again and again, until her thigh muscles were trembling beneath his palms and her usual moans were mixed with desperate whines and he thought she might cry if denied release again. His own arousal was making it difficult to remember why the game had even started, and some part of him wanted to remove his trousers and drive into her with abandon. It wouldn’t take much--a thrust, possibly two--and they would both shatter. But that would require rising from his knees, and he doubted very much he had that much self-control left.

He slowed instead, just enough to catch her eye and ask for silent permission, then slipped two fingers deep inside her and resumed the motions of his mouth. She came undone silently, her mouth parted in exquisite agony and her back arching, her thighs clenching around his head and her cunt around his fingers, trembling and powerful and Phryne.

It seemed to last forever, his fingers and his mouth prolonging her pleasure until she collapsed against the chair in exhaustion. He watched her for a long moment, enthralled and not a little smug by the contented smile on her face. Eventually her eyes opened and the smile turned mischievous; one leg rose, her foot coming to rest on his shoulder, then gently pushing him backwards until he rocked slightly and came to rest on his haunches. She slid from the chair onto his lap, straddling his thighs and wrapping her arms around his neck, and teased his lips with the tip of her tongue, promising all sorts of wicked things and giving none away. He closed his eyes and groaned.

“Is there something you want, Jack?” she asked with false innocence, her voice still breathless and her body trembling.

A hundred images sprung to mind at once--the flash in her eyes as she looked up at him, his cock in her mouth; the slow rise and fall of her body above him as she rode him to the very edge of his control; the pearlescent beads of sweat on her brow as he thrust into her, hard and fast, hearing the breathy gasps from them both.

“Only your desires, Miss Fisher.”

She laughed, the last vestiges of imperious restraint replaced with her usual _joie de vivre_.

“You’re a terrible liar, darling,” she said fondly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “But no matter. I have ways of making you beg.”


End file.
